


Voldy's Day Off

by year_of_the_pineapple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Oneshot, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/year_of_the_pineapple/pseuds/year_of_the_pineapple
Summary: Being evil is hard, and even Voldemort needs a day off, sometimes. What will our favourite resident Dark Lord get up to?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Voldy's Day Off

**AN & disclaimer: This is the second dumbest thing I've ever written.**

* * *

Voldemort sits on an old, red velvet chair at the centre of the Malfoy's sprawling living room. It was far from the average living room – the walls were adorned with expensive looking portraits of ancestors young and old; each and every one with that eerie Aryan complexion.

On the west-facing wall, the family crest stands proudly – a large black and olive green 'M' adorned with snakes, serpents and spears.

On the east facing wall, there's a mounted deer head, it's terrified face still frozen forever in the moment it met its imminent demise.

Voldemort fits in nicely with the décor; dressed comfortably in his most comfortable Salazar Slytherin themed pyjamas and a robe that he assumes Lucius has had specially made for him, given the gold 'TR' emblazoned on the lapel. Despite his luxurious surroundings, he hadn't _quite_ acclimated to the Malfoy's level of stupid decadence just yet.

Voldemort had grown up in an orphanage, after all, and as such he tended to prefer much more austere surroundings.

That said, he doesn't miss having to live with that damned idiot _Quirrell_. Having to live on the back of someone's head had been bad enough, let alone having to endure that torture in a lacklustre _one-bedroom_ _flat_. He shudders at the mere memory.

Compared to _that_ year, his new life at Malfoy Manor was a veritable breath of fresh air.

He stretches out his spindly legs and relaxes, opening today's copy of the Daily Prophet which one of the servants had ironed out and brought to him.

His eyes rest upon a promising story.

_**\- TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER –**  
_

Right off the bat, _'tragic'_ and _'demise'_. Two of Lord Voldemort's favourite words – a welcome sight after having to sit through almost an entire week's worth of mollycoddling, uplifting nonsense presumably written by some hack with a cheap Quick-Quotes Quill.

He reads on.

_**St Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a potted-plant…** _

Voldemort's eyes skim over the sentence as he rustles the paper on his lap. He gets to the words 'potted-plant' and his eyes wander to the windowsill – resting upon the brown pot of Bubotubers that usually sit there.

" _Hmm_ ," he strokes his chin, vividly picturing the thick, slug-like tendrils wrapped around that little twerp Harry Potter's pale neck…

A ghost of a smile appears on his thin, dried old lips for a second before it promptly disappears. He sighs heavily to himself. "No, no. It would never work," he mutters. " _Could_ never work…"

Still, the thought gives him a little thrill as he reaches out with one hand for his morning coffee, taking his first sip. The broiling liquid scalds his tongue; the taste bitter and acrid. Just the way he likes it.

A voice interrupts his peaceful reverie. " _What_ would never work, my Lord?" comes the snivelling drones of a Malfoy from several rooms away. Voldemort grasps the newspaper tighter in irritation at being interrupted.

"I don't recall addressing _you_ , Lucius," he bites back, sharp-tongued as ever. Despite his voice sounding like that of a 90-year-old chain-smoker, he still manages to inject every sentence with paralysing venom. He coughs into a fist a couple of times, and then nestles back into his reading.

"Apologies, my Lord," the voice comes back. Voldemort's eyes narrow even more so than usual as they rest upon the Malfoy in question, appearing in the doorframe. "Can… can I get you anything?" he asks, visibly nervous.

Voldemort scowls and places the newspaper down in his lap. "Are you a _house elf_ , or a Death Eater?" he snaps.

Lucius cowls away. "D-death Eater, my Lord…"

"Then act like one!" he growls, and then his stomach rumbles. "And… get me some toast."

"O-of course, my Lord," Lucius practically bows down in gratitude and admiration of his fearless leader – as it _should_ be, Voldemort thinks. "And how would you like it?"

"Crispy; no butter," he hisses, his voice slow and deliberate. "Anything else and it's _ruined_ ," he pauses, sending Lucius one more filthy glare. "Don't you _dare_ defy me, Lucius."

Lucius disappears from the door frame and Voldemort lets himself smile a little, the corners of his mouth tugging up in self-indulgence. There really was no better way to let off some steam than shouting at his snivelling sycophants, Voldemort thinks.

He hears a gentle hiss come from under his chair and he remembers Nagini.

"Come here, Nagini," he says in a hissing register. "…wouldn't you like a snack?"

Nagini slithers from under the armchair, wrapping partially around Voldemort's legs and flickering her long, reptilian tongue at him in assent.

Voldemort's eyes flicker over to the large, shaggy Scottish Deerhound sitting innocently over by the roaring fire. He stares at it for several long, hard seconds. "What do you think, Nagini? A snack most befitting for my most worthy companion…" he holds his breath. "We'll see, won't we," he narrows his eyes and reaches one decrepit, white hand out to stroke Nagini on the head. "Lucius Malfoy had better behave himself… _and_ that snivelling son of his, too," he adds, as an afterthought.

Nagini nestles her scaly head into the palm of his hand in adoration of her master and Voldemort chuckles. "Good girl, Nagini."

"M-My Lord…" Lucius appears in the doorway once again, this time holding a plate of steaming toast in his hand. Voldemort sniffs the air, a frown appearing on his face - and Lucius holds his breath. There's a long second where neither man speaks, and then Lucius stammers out the question. "D-does it smell satisfactory, my Lord?"

Voldemort sends Lucius a look like he's never seen before, and holds his hand out for Lucius to hand him his breakfast. "I don't know. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have the olfactory functions I used to," he utters with contempt, grasping one piece of toast in his spidery hands and analysing it.

He pauses for one agonising second and then nods. "It is acceptable."

Lucius finally releases the breath he was holding in immense relief. "Your reward…" Voldemort continues. "I will keep my snake from devouring your precious dog for _perhaps_ …" he pauses, tantalisingly, and holds up a single, thin finger. "... _one_ more day."

Lucius swallows thickly, and nods, eyes wide. "Of course, My Lord. Very generous," he stammers out.

Voldemort sips his coffee again, no longer scalding hot. He looks down at it in disappointment for a second, and then seems to remember that he has a wide arsenal of magic at his disposal. He pulls a wand out from his robe pocket (one could never be too careful) and points it at the ceramic mug. " _Incendio_ ," he whispers under his breath, feeling the water heat and bubble within seconds. He smiles contentedly at the beverage and a sigh escapes him. " _Perfect_."

A rehearsed throat-clearing cough emanates from the doorway and Voldemort's muscles tighten again. There's a clatter as he angrily places his plate of warm toast down on the coffee table.

"What is it now?" he demands, pointing his wand at his interloper. "Can't you see I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast, you _oaf_?"

Lucius blinks. "Oh, um, I'm dreadfully sorry, my Lord. It's just that… well, I was wondering if you were going to hold another meeting today? I just… I need to know whether to order the servants to clear out the dining hall. It's still full of muggle blood, from our last… _meeting_ ," he admits.

Voldemort glares, standing up and slowly rising to his full formidable height, walking in quick strides over to where Lucius cowers. "I allowed you to join the Death Eaters because I was assured that you were _quite_ competent, Lucius," he begins. Mr. Malfoy begins to stutters out a 'thank you' but Voldemort holds out one robed hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Was I _wrong_ , to do that?" he asks.

"N-no you weren't, My L-"

"In fact, I was under the impression that _all_ of my followers were competent wizards," he says again, his voice dragging out each syllable as Lucius Malfoy winces away from Voldemort's wand – his old wand. " _Was. I. Wrong_?" he repeats his words, through his teeth.

"N-never, my Lord," Lucius admits, his head bowing and his limp hair hanging down to hide his face in shame.

"Then remind me, Lucius, why I would need to hold meetings every single day? Surely you have more faith in my followers, Lucius, hmm?" he asks, tauntingly. "Or perhaps you don't have _any_ faith in them? Perhaps you think that I have chosen poorly!" he pauses to let out a loud, jarring laugh which rings around the room.

"No." Lucius admits, defeated. "My deepest apologies."

"My deepest apologies… _my Lord_ ," Voldemort corrects, inching his wand closer to Lucius' face. Lucius squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for his certain death.

His heartbeat accelerates as Voldemort raises the dragon heartstring wand up, inhaling heavily as the tension in the room grows. Lucius' mind races, wondering if should start begging for his life, wondering if he should call for Narcissa. The fleeting thought occurs that perhaps if he runs quick enough, he can escape his own doom.

Voldemort sighs. He lightly bops Lucius on the nose with his wand, just hard enough to startle the Death Eater. " _Accio_ toast," he mutters under his breath. Lucius fearfully watches as the toast zooms into Voldemort's outstretched hand.

He takes a bite and munches quietly, still locking eyes menacingly with the lowly minion before him.

Lucius opens his mouth in shock, and then closes it again. "I… I…" he stammers, watching Voldemort with wide eyes as the Dark Lord slips his wand back inside his pocket. He falls to his knees in gratitude, clasping his hands together. " _Thank_ you, My Lord. _Thank_ you," he practically sobs.

"Get out of my sight, Lucius," Voldemort says in open disgust. "And don't bother me again today. Unless it's to bring Nagini a fresh, juicy rat."

Lucius scrambles up and out of the room so quickly that it gives him whiplash.

Voldemort lets out a deep sigh, massaging the bridge of his… well, his slits, with a thumb and forefinger.

He then shuffles back to his chair in his comfortable velvet slippers, lowering himself once more in his previous position. Taking another bite of toast, he licks his lips and he picks up the newspaper he had discarded onto the floor to place onto his lap.

Make no mistake; Voldemort was just as evil and uncaring as ever. It wasn't that he'd spared Lucius's pathetic life for any particular reason. It hadn't been out of any sense of gratitude that Lucius and Narcissus were letting him stay here, and it _certainly_ wasn't because Lucius was a useful Death Eater, or anything.

No, it was simply Voldemort's day off. Killing wizards and muggles alike might be fun every other day of the week, but that didn't change the fact that it was also technically work.

He eyes flit to the article he had started a few minutes ago, and he continues to read on.

**_As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil's Snare, which, when touched by the convalescent Mr Bode, throttled him instantly…_ **

Voldemort lets out strangled noise of amusement and pats Nagini on the head. He takes another sip of coffee; another bite of toast. He lets the roaring fire pleasantly warm his decaying old skin as he makes a mental note to enquire into whether any of his loyal Death Eaters happened to be herbology fanatics.

"No rest for the wicked," he chortles at himself, realising that he's thinking about work again. Nagini hisses at him, slithering closer to the plate of toast he'd left on the side of the table. She waves from side to side, eyeing up the food enviously. She's about to pounce, but Voldemort hadn't spent years carving his reputation for _nothing_.

" _Accio_ toast," he repeats quickly, as Nagini's jaws snap - snatching the toast from its plate and into his hand just in the nick of time. "Not today, Nagini," he says smugly, popping the rest of the thick, delicious crust into his mouth.

 _No rest for the wicked_ , he thinks, _there was no doubt about that_. Even on his day off, he'd had to spend precious time disciplining Lucius, summoning toast, and devising schemes for the demise of Harry Potter.

But still, even the Dark Lord himself needed a day off. And Voldemort needed his toast.

And he was damned if he was going to share.

_fin_

* * *

**That wraps that up, I guess.**


End file.
